


'Tis Better To Give

by omg_okimhere



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-08 05:09:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12857430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omg_okimhere/pseuds/omg_okimhere
Summary: Borrowing heavily from one of my favorite authors, and calling up all the Dickensian Victorian Christmas aura I can.





	'Tis Better To Give

Laughing in delight, two rosy-cheeked children run hand-in-hand up to the hunchbacked figure in the long red robe.

“Father Christmas!  Father Christmas!”  The youngsters jump up and down, pointing excitedly to the old man’s handcart of sweets.  “Can we have a candy?”

Stroking his coarse white beard with gnarled fingers, the hired-actor-turned-beloved-holiday-icon eyes them each in turn.  “Naughty or nice?” he queries, boredom slipping into his voice.

“I’m nice,” asserts the girl, nodding her head so vigorously her ringlets bounce around her chubby face.  “He’s naughty.”  She sticks her tongue out at her brother.

“Am not,” the boy protests, wiping a dripping nose on his mitten.  “I’m just as nice as you.”  They both fix longing eyes on the collection of chocolates lined up in the wooden wagon.

Father Christmas laughs in spite of himself and hands a bonbon into each wool-covered palm.  “Keep on yer P’s and Q’s, then, or I won’t be visitin’ ya come midnight.”

The siblings fill their mouths with the delectable treats and disappear giggling, deeper into the maze of the holiday market.

Two observers witness the touching tableau, and a meaningful glance passes between them – one of love, and hope, and dreams of the future.  Arm in arm, they stroll contentedly past covered stalls whose awnings are just beginning to collect the flurries that fall from the grey December sky. 

The cinnamon-y scent of mulled wine mixes with the toasty aroma of roasting chestnuts, lending warmth to the air and the soul.  Festive wreaths adorn nearly every booth, and twists of pine boughs and red ribbon create a canopy overhead, the seasonal trappings briefly raising the Whitechapel square from squalor to a bit of magic. 

In the distance, a cluster of carolers lifts their voices, making up for their lack of perfect pitch with their exceedingly robust renditions of heart-tugging favorites.  Even the passing hansoms seem part of the holiday fairy tale –- festooned in scarlet bunting, their horses’ yokes adorned with bells -- they are more reminiscent of country sleighs than anything else.

The couple wanders happily from one display counter to the next, admiring sparkling ornaments and wooden toys, fine leather and warm woolens, scented candles and perfumes for both gents and ladies.

“What do you want for Christmas, Bennet?”  Bella snuggles a little closer to her husband, pulling the hood of her forest green cape up around her ginger braids, as she looks fondly at him.

Bennet slows to plant a kiss on her cold nose.  “There’s naught I want except you,” he rumbles, meaning every word.  The home Bella has made for them is beyond blissful, and he could not ask for a more devoted wife. 

And he is similarly devoted to her and their happiness.

  
“It’s me who should be gettin’ _you_ something.”  He smiles, but behind the smile is the realization that his paycheck only goes so far in a month.  Most of the feminine baubles and masculine accoutrements that appear under the Christmas trees of Londoners are out of reach on a sergeant’s salary. 

“Just a little something,” Bella implores, giving him that look that melts his heart.  “It’s our first Christmas.  Don’t be a Ebenezer.”

“Who’s Ebenezer?” huffs Bennet, his jealous hackles rising.

Bella laughs.  “A bloke in a book.  Never mind.”  Her eyes shine in the lantern light, as the stall keepers fire their kerosene against the late afternoon gloom.

“Something small for both,” relents Bennet, after a moment.  “After all, it _is_ Christmas Eve.”  He’ll have to work a double before the end of the year to make it up, but the effort is worth it, to see the joy in her face.

“You are a love,” coos Bella delightedly.

Bennet gives a sloppy grin.  “We must go our separate ways for shopping then,” he announces with a wink, as he disengages from their walking embrace.  “There’ll be no surprise to it, so long as I have you on my arm.”

Bella’s touch lingers on his coat sleeve.  “Where shall we meet?”

Without much thought, Bennet replies, “At the parish fountain.  At vespers.”

Bella is already looking around with a practiced eye, calculating the possibilities for purchase.  “I _will_ need some spending money,” she informs him in all earnestness, reaching impulsively into Bennet’s trouser pocket, where her fingers encounter first his timepiece.

“Avast, woman!” pleads Bennet in surprise, a flush of crimson rising from under his collar.  “’Tis a church market we attend.”

“Prime patch for pickpockets, I hear,” Bella says blithely, withdrawing her hand clutched around a few coins.  “Best call a copper.”

 

*****************

 

Her toes are beginning to feel pinched, her hands are cold even inside her fur-lined muff, and her zeal is giving way to frustration.  Over the past hour, Bella has seen many things she would be proud to give her steadfast husband, but none within her price range. 

In time, she comes to the end of the market where the merchant storefronts take over, no closer to finding a worthy gift.  Her aimless footsteps lead her away from the last stalls, onto the street of commerce. 

The sidewalk is bustling with last minute shoppers, churchgoers on their way to evening services, folks hurrying home for their Christmas Eve mince.  Fighting her way through the sea of top hats and bustles, Bella takes shelter under the awning of a jeweler, whose gleaming shop window features a refined collection of brooches and necklaces, money clips and watch chains. 

Her gaze takes it all in, her eyes alighting with surety on one item, only to dim with dismay when she sees the number displayed beneath.  She turns away sadly, having to sidestep to avoid the broom of the industrious clerk sweeping the stoop next door.  In curiosity, she glances upwards.

MARKET STREET WIGMAKERS

Top prices for your tresses

 

***********************

 

Nestled against his massive palm, the small round watchface is almost lost, its thin black hands telling the tale of the approaching five o’clock hour.  Bennet flips closed the lid and shoves the timepiece back in his pants pocket.  The sun is nearly below the skyline of warehouses, yet he has found no affordable wares to gift his lady. 

He curses once again the niggardliness of the H Division poo-bahs.  He sighs, thinking he will have to go back and purchase something unimaginative like a scented candle.

“Hey mate!” calls a voice from the stand he’s just passed.  “Wot time you got?”  Bennet turns around to see who has spoken.  BUY – SELL – TRADE.  The pawnbroker’s stall.

Annoyed but willing himself to be congenial, Bennet steps closer.

“Near five,” he replies to the cagey-looking codger who stands behind a table filled with the used and useless discards of their fellowman.  Oh, there a few nice things – some money clips, a watch or two. 

And a pair of exquisite tortoiseshell and pearl hair combs.  

Bennet can easily imagine them adorning his lovely Bella’s ginger fall of curls, can see in his mind's eye the way they would catch the candlelight in their parlor.  He can picture the cascade of her tresses when she removes the ornate hair pinnings before coming to bed of an evening.

“Somethin’ catch yer fancy?”  The trader interrupts Bennet’s fantasy.  “Always a deal to be made, mate.”

Thoughtfully, Bennet pulls his hand from his trouser pocket, rolling the silver timekeeper across his knuckles, as deft as a carny trickster.  The watch had been a gift from Colonel Faulkner upon his military discharge – a bittersweet remembrance now.  High time to make a new memory. 

And he has an adoring woman to come home to, no matter the hour of the day.

“Let me see those hair bobs there.”

 

********************

 

From high atop the church steeple, five peals ring out in slow succession, the sound bathing the market and the nearby neighborhood, then returning to the bell tower to sleep until the next hour.  Across the East End, the snow has stopped, leaving everything with a powdered sugar dusting of white that sparkles in the crisp lunar light.

Bella exits the jeweler’s shop as the last chime dies away, pulling up her hood against the dropping temperatures as she regains the street.  She hurries to the appointed rendezvous, arriving a bit breathless, excited to present her gift. 

But she finds herself alone.

Brushing away a few dried leaves and accumulated flakes, she takes a chilly seat on the edge of the fountain.  With its waters now stilled for the winter, the granite pedestal holds only a shallow moat at its base, covered with a thin sheet of ice.  Bella passes the time contemplating the full moon on its rise, until the slap of leather on cobblestones draws her attention.

“You look not at all like Father Christmas,” she teases a coat-flapping, gift-bearing Bennet when he hurries up.

“Sorry, luv,” he apologizes, warming her with a kiss of greeting.  “I lost track of time.” Inwardly, he winces at the truth of that, then steps back to take her in.  “And you look exactly like a Christmas angel.”  He sits beside her, holding out a small package wrapped in colourful foil.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs, suddenly as shy as a hopeful suitor.

“Merry Christmas,” returns Bella softly, her face almost ethereal in the dappled moonglow.  She pulls an even smaller package from her hand warmer.  “Let us open them at the same time.”

Together they peel away the wrappings, each full of eagerness for the other’s reaction.  The evening shadows prove a blessing, hiding the first faces of confusion.   The silence grows overlong.

Bella is the first to speak.  “Oh, Bennet,” she whispers in anguished kindness, as she lowers her hood to reveal hair no longer than chin length.

Bennet’s jaw drops.

Bella quickly reaches for his hand.  “It will grow back,” she soothes him.  “They’re absolutely the finest thing I’ve ever owned.” She leans in to comfort him with her lips. 

“I love them.  I love you.”

“But…but why?” Bennet stutters, postponing the dropping of the second shoe.

Bella smiles ironically.  “The wigmaker was paying by the inch.  The jeweler was charging silver by the ounce.  It’s funny in a way, don’t you think?”

“Moreso than you know,” replies Bennet bitterly. 

Bella stares at him, uncomprehending.

Swallowing hard, Bennet plucks up the heavy weight watch chain from its gift box.  “This is a thing of beauty…from a beautiful woman.  Thank you.”  His eyes meet hers in sorrow.  “I traded my watch for your hair bits.”

Bella’s hand goes to her mouth, stifling a gasp.  “Then let us go un-do the trade!”  The solution seems simple to her.

“Absolutely not,” decrees her husband, pulling her close.  Slowly, the lines in Bennet's face settle into peaceful repose, as a bigger truth steals across his soul.  “Your hair will grow, I will work extra hours and buy a new watch.  Things are as they were meant to be.”

“But…,” begins Bella, only to be silenced by a press of the lips that takes her breath away.

In time she relaxes, content in Bennet’s arms, as the stars twinkle to life above, and the harmonies of a choir singing Silent Night drift out across the courtyard.  She reflects on the paradoxes of the day and the lessons learned, at a loss to put into words the profundity of the mutual selflessness that defined their gift-giving. 

Finally she says simply, “We have the best of Christmas gifts in each other, do we not?”

“Aye, lass,” agrees Bennet, his heart full.  “We have the gift of love.”

**Author's Note:**

> The carnival trick of rolling a round flat item like a coin, etc. across the knuckles is known as The Steeplechase Flourish.
> 
> Most readers will see that I have essentially used the plot of a well-known short story by the American author O. Henry for this. I think it fits this world and these two very well.


End file.
